Holding Patterns
by kinokokichigai
Summary: Sasha Nein, by nature, is a man of procedural thought, only given to bouts of impulsivity in the rare, outstanding circumstance of a long-awaited opportunity.


**Holding Patterns**

* * *

Sasha Nein, by nature, is a man of procedural thought, only given to bouts of impulsivity in the rare, outstanding circumstance of a long-awaited opportunity. So it really should be said that even these reactions are somewhat premeditated, his mind in holding pattern until what he perceives as the right moment comes along. Furthermore, this singular moment is rarely thought upon (unless in hindsight, which is a completely different subject altogether), which might lead to the label of impulsivity. But with Agent Nein, I do believe that his mind is a constant whirl of activity, experimentation, and – pray do not take this the wrong way, dear reader – schemes.

And it is now that I will take my leave – though I appear later, for a moment, through no volition of my own (mind controlling implants are a terrible thing) – and remove myself and my conjecture from the tale for a while. Let us begin: not at the beginning, but sometime after the fact, _in media res._

_(-)_

If asked, Sasha would concede that it was not quite the strangest summer of his life. No, that dubious honor belonged to the year he and Milla had spent infiltrating an orgiastic vampire cult in Transylvania, searching for conclusive evidence that the cult's leader was, in fact, an alien. Part of the disguise Milla had enforced, aside from garishly rich and heavy brocades and velvets, had been a truly abominable moustache, curled at the ends. The memory of the wardrobe and facial hair made him shudder: compared to aliens and moustache wax, brain theft and psychic death tanks were metaphorical blips on the radar. However, it was by far the most pleasant summer Sasha had experienced for a few reasons.

First, there was the induction of Razputin Aquato into the Psychonauts. Although Milla had been uncomfortable with the conscription of a prepubescent boy into a super-secret spy agency, she was soundly overruled by Sasha, Morceau, and Ford. Second, the realization of psytanium's effects on a previously stable psyche – Morceau Oleander's, to be precise – and his admittedly brilliant death tank design was something of a revelation for Sasha's personal experiments.

Third, last, and most important, was the full blossom of his relationship with the inestimably lovely Milla Vodello.

_(-)_

Sasha rushed from his lab, fingering his packet of cigarettes as he strode down the steps of the Geodesic Psycho-Isolation Chamber. The camp was quiet. Had he been the sort of man to quote bad movies, he would have continued: too quiet. However, he was (and is) not, and so he didn't.

Sasha goes through a mental list – Razputin was still in the lab, where he had hopefully discovered the gift Sasha left. One child accounted for. But all around him plays the soft murmur of trees and the distant growls of bears, and, very faintly, the whisper of the rocks. All in natural harmony, unmarred by the shrieks and laughter of young psychic campers, all too quiet and calm for his mind.

Then a glint from the setting sun winks out from behind the trees, and Sasha remembers that it is dinner time. No, nothing could be wrong. Children could only go so long without eating, according to Milla.

As he makes his way down the forest path, a familiar humming and tip-tapping of feet leads him to pause his brisk walk. Milla is not far from him, hips swinging in her eye-searing dress.

"Well, darling," Milla says as she catches up to him, throwing him a quick smile, "What do you think Morry found?"

Her voice lilts in that lovely way and her earrings flash in the dying light, but her smile is strained with overtones of worry. Even so, Sasha's breath stops in his throat as usual, and he explains it away (as usual) that it was only natural for a man in Milla's presence to react in such manner.

"No idea," he replies, perhaps a beat too late. Milla doesn't seem to notice.

"Hmm. Did Ford know anything, or were you able to ask him?" She re-sets her handbag on one shoulder, and carefully levitates over a patch of mud.

"No time. I was in the middle of an experiment with young Razputin, and left as soon as I could."

Her smile becomes less strained and more joyful, and Sasha quickly concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other.

"Oh, he is such a sweet little boy, isn't he? And so fast! He raced through my mind like greasy lightning." Sasha nods, and she continues. "He is a bit of a flirt, though. Boys!"

"Boys will be boys, Agent Vodello." Not that it'd be difficult to flirt with her, Sasha thinks, and then carefully tries to ignore. Milla hums her agreement, and the two walk through the reception area in companionable silence. The bears and cougars have learned through painful experience to leave the pair alone.

When they arrive at the parking lot, Morceau is nowhere to be found. Sasha frowns, and Milla begins to rifle through her obscenely colorful handbag.

"Sasha?"

"Yes?"

"Do you have your psychoportal with you? I think I left mine at the dock."

Sasha clears his throat, then makes a show of patting down his pockets, stopping to light a cigarette and doing his level best to avoid Milla's unimpressed stare.

"Ah. No. I must have forgotten it in the lab."

Milla raises one elegant eyebrow.

"How silly of me," he continues, lamely, and it sounds unconvincing even to his ears.

"How unlike you, you mean." Her mouth pinches in thought, and then she realizes what he's done, and he almost feels guilty at the aghast look on her face. She swats him on the arm.

"Sasha Nein!" she cries, swatting him on the arm. "You left a dangerous psychic device with a ten-year-old _boy_! Why in the world—"

"Milla, the psychoportal is only as dangerous as the mind you enter. Razputin is a smart young man, he'll be fine. He can't get himself in _that_ much trouble.

"Sasha, I had never taken you as a silly person. Of course he'll find trouble! Children like that always do."

There is a something about the end of this sentence, her accent growing momentarily thicker, which makes Sasha stop his tongue, to quit the argument.

"Milla, what is wrong?"

"What you did!" She won't meet his eyes.

"No, beside that."

She frowns, the expression wholly unsuited to her face. "Milla."

"He is just a very curious boy, Sasha. It is only right that I worry."

Sasha is silent, but motions for her to go on. Better to clear the air before a mission. She understands this too, from remnants of the days in their partnership when they never stopped arguing.

"He is very curious. He found everything in my head." He tilts his head, uncomprehending. "Every room, Sasha. Some rooms that children should not see."

Then, of course, he understands, and he actually does feel guilty – both for making her think about that terrible place of screaming guilt, and for consciously putting a child (an extraordinary child, a child so much like himself) in danger. He lifts his hand and puts it on her shoulder. She leans in to it, her head drooping towards his hand.

This is what friends do, he reminds himself. This is okay, this slight touch. This is comfort. Then, seemingly of its own volition, his hand moves up to cup her dark face, and she sighs. His thumb brushes across her high cheekbones.

This is… not professional in the slightest.

He drops his hand, and before she has a chance to pout like he imagines she would, he speaks.

"Milla, I apologize. But I think, that because he has such a short time here, I should give Razputin all the means necessary to teach himself in the future. He is smart, he is courageous, and he is fast like greasy lightning. He will be fine."

Milla huffs, shakes her head, and Sasha knows he's won for now. The small victory doesn't quite taste like ashes, but it's nowhere as satisfying as winning an argument with her normally is.

All the while, there's something thrumming in his chest, and his thumb and forefinger rub together. He wishes he wasn't wearing gloves.

"We'll see, darling," she says. "Now, where in the world is Morceau? It's not like him to be so late."

Sasha knows a subject change when he hears one, so he digs out a cigarette and lights it, turning towards the camp entrance to see if he can get a glimpse of the little man. Then Milla shrieks, he whirls back towards her, and he sees a pair of glowing eyes before everything goes black.

_(-)_

The time spent alone, with only his thoughts, is not precisely lonely. He wanders through his memory vaults, finding a reel from a mission a couple of months back, when he and Milla had escaped from an exploding building. She had landed on top of him, all dancing curves and excited eyes. Sometimes – only here, in the depths of his mind – he likes to imagine that those excited green eyes were shining for joy of him and him alone. Sasha carefully slots the image of his gloved hand on her face and her breathy sigh, right next to it. He is nothing if not methodical.

Then Razputin enters his mind, eager to shoot and train and explore, and Sasha rips himself from the fresh past in order to speak.

_(-)_

The next thing he knows, he is sitting in a chair in the asylum tower, and Razputin is snapping his fingers in front of Sasha's face, clamoring about helping Lili. But first, Sasha stands, wobbles a bit, and makes his way over to Milla. She is shaking her head from side to side, like a drunken, colorful snake.

She sees him, smiles reassuringly, and he finds himself smiling in return. Then he shakes his head, feeling his brain rattling in his skull.

He asks Razputin about the surgery, is pleasantly surprised with the idea of a lab assistant, and watches the young man run off in a hurry to find all of his classmates' brains. Lili Zanotto rolls her eyes in the typical over-dramatic preteen fashion, but Milla just laughs.

"Young love is just so cute, isn't it darling?"

Sasha pauses between his psy-blasts, and shrugs. "I suppose."

Lili blushes furiously, and Milla laughs even harder.

"Well, I'll tell you, Lili. Boys," she says, flashing her bright eyes to Sasha, "are the same no matter what the age. So you should get used to it."

Sasha stops entirely, and stares at Milla. Her smile is smaller now, but no less genuine, and it is soft and gentle and – _good Gott_, is that hope?

But the moment passes, and she resumes shooting Lili's restraints.

Carefully, in his mind, things are clicking together – the bright grin she has always graced upon him, the impromptu lessons she had given when he complained about his comparatively lack-luster levitation skills, that breathy sigh and those bright green eyes, and his own stuttered breathing and careful footsteps and treacherous hands and relief and joy and –

-and the holding pattern shakes to a halt, and the new imperative is realized.

Sasha Nein, by nature, is a man of procedural thought, only given to bouts of impulsivity in the rare, outstanding circumstance of a long-awaited opportunity.

He does not pause his shooting, but a smile grows on his face.

_(-)_

Later, after all is said and done, Milla ambushes him with a tight hug in full view of the re-brained campers, flush with victory. He splutters and protests, but she flutters those inestimably lovely green eyes at him.

"Now really, darling, was that so bad? I've been wanting to do that for a while, you know."

He frowns at her, though it takes some effort.. "Agent Vodello, that is hardly appropriate."

She looks crestfallen, and he fears her expression would give way to heartbreak, so he lifts his hand to her cheek, gloveless this time.

"But, you probably should have done it sooner, Milla. Saved us both some time."

Then he leans forward and kisses her slowly, and the way she sighs his name has them both blushing, while Ford and Oleander quickly herd the children away. That doesn't stop Raz's and Nils' wolf-whistles, or Franke's demands for bets to be repaid. But soon enough the reception area is quiet, but for the pair.

With one hand in his partner's hair and the other on her hip while she presses her swaying, laughing body close, Sasha decides that this summer is _by far_ the most pleasant summer of his life so far.

* * *

I guess this is what you get when you ask an eloquent hulking lungfish to write a short story. But really, I may add on more one-shots to this, so keep your peepers peeled!

(time: about two hours, two white russians, and five cigarettes.)


End file.
